


Ghosts of Memory

by misaffection



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-05
Updated: 2015-09-05
Packaged: 2018-04-19 05:31:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4734389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misaffection/pseuds/misaffection
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He remembers far more than he usually does, has held on to the former self better. Except that it leaves no room for him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ghosts of Memory

A new regeneration always takes a while to fit. The Doctor scratches at the back of his neck, trying to relieve the itch of his new skin. Or maybe it's the clothes. He glances down. Touches the braces. Memories spark. He remembers far more than he usually does, has held on to the former self better.

Except that it leaves no room for _him_.

“Doctor?”

Clara's voice carries across the console, high and uncertain. As if she doesn't quite know what the question is. He certainly doesn't know the answer.

“I think.” The blinking lights beckon his touch. “I think.” He puts his hand on a control, and just like that it all rushes back. He throws the switch. “Yes, I'm beginning to think.”

“Well that's good,” says Clara, and laughs. “So, where are we going?”

“Everywhere, child.”

She hits him on the arm. “I'm not a child!”

The Doctor blinks. Yes, he really has used that word. It seems his last regeneration isn't all he recalls. A century and more sits in his head. Thirteen lives. The names and faces of family, friends and companions.

“No, of course not. Sorry, Clara. Still a little fuddled.”

“It's okay.” Her smile drops to a more troubled expression. “If you are.”

“I'm fine, Clara.” He turns a dial. “How about Karellen?”

She stares at him. He ignores the look and adjusts... something. Then she sighs. “What's on Karellen?”

Another itch crawls. His arm this time. He grits his teeth and waits for it to pass. It's just his skin, settling in. Or the last of the regeneration energy dissipating. Something like that. It's fine. _He's_ fine.

“No idea.” He tries a grin. It feels brittle and sharp. “That's why I want to go.”

To somewhere new, where the ghosts of memory can't haunt him. He throws another switch and listens to the TARDIS groan.


End file.
